


take me so breathless

by goingmywaydoll



Series: honey, let's get married [3]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: (as always with them), Blow Jobs, Comfort No Hurt, Commitment, Future Fic, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making out in cars, Teasing, Tenderness, Thoughts About Marriage, Weddings, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll
Summary: “The other groom forbade all Cabaret songs.”“The other groom is also alittlebit of a buzzkill, so are wesurewe want to listen to him?”"Tina Turner,” someone—Roland, David discovers, when he shoots a withering glare over his shoulder—yells from across the lawn.“NotTina Turner,” Patrick says.“YesTina Turner!” Stevie exclaims.Or, the day of.





	take me so breathless

**Author's Note:**

> thank you as always to leslie, who i am rapidly becoming more and more deeply indebted to for the absolutely brilliant beta'ing she does for me. and also to aly who read this late last night to reassure me it was not quite as much of a hot mess as i thought it was. i still don't believe her but whatever.
> 
> i know it's a little later than i said it would be posted but if i posted it when i said i would, it would have been 4k shorter and incoherent. mostly this part and the next one are just me thinking about the notion of "overused" tropes and how meaningful it is to me to see these tropes be experienced by queer characters no matter how played out they feel for straight couples. there's a good amount of their wedding that didn't make it into this, namely, the ceremony itself and more scenes with the roses, but they felt out of the scope of this fic. one day i'll string them together into more coherent thoughts about the roses at a family but let's be honest, i probably won't.
> 
> title from let's get married, by bleachers (but the mitski cover, of course)

David can feel arms winding around his abdomen, lips pressing to the hollow of his neck, and he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. Patrick’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder, arms tightening around his torso even as he tries to hold his champagne flute between his fingers.

“Hi.” Patrick’s voice is low and soft in his ear and David wants nothing more than to twist in his arms so he can properly hold him. He settles for turning his head so he can at least catch a glimpse of Patrick out of the corner of his eye.

“Was it you that stopped the DJ from playing Poison? If so, how would you feel about marrying me again?” He can feel Patrick’s laugh reverberate against him; he’s pressed up against his back, so close David can feel his heartbeat, elevated from the dancing and champagne. Patrick is a line of heat against him, looking so good in his custom-fitted suit, tight in all the right places, making David feel okay about downgrading from a band to a DJ and holding the reception on the lawn outside the motel so they could afford them. Again, he thinks about how glad he is they saw each other before the ceremony so that his legs could have the chance to collapse beneath him in private instead of in front of everyone out on the lawn.

“That was Stevie, actually,” Patrick replies, pressing a kiss to David’s neck.

“Mmh, how do you feel about divorce then? I have to go talk to Stevie.” He pretends to pull away, but Patrick holds him tight. David doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning.

“Did you just say the word divorce at our wedding?”

David has to school his features into something that isn’t too sickly sweet at the sound of the word wedding. “I wasn’t aware we had banned words in addition to banned songs.”

“Feels a little like an unspoken rule.”

It’s too long to not be facing him, so David twists, winding his arms around Patrick’s neck and squinting. “Under any circumstances?” Patrick shrugs as if to say _Obviously_. “What about, ‘I promise to never ever divorce you’?”

“Wow.” Patrick pretends to look gobsmacked, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you put that in your vows?”

“‘Not even allowing the DJ to play Poison would make me want a divorce.’”

“Seriously, was that in the first draft of your vows?”

“Shut up,” David says. “‘A baseball themed wedding wouldn’t make me want a divorce.’”

Patrick’s face dissolves into a silly sort of grin. “You’re telling me this _now_ and not six months ago when we were deciding on color palettes?”

“I know you’re trying to be funny, honey, but _no,_” David says, patting him on the back. Patrick looks a little like he’s going to keep going, except the song changes to [ _ How Sweet It Is_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beW9AH1Goxg), and something falls over Patrick’s face. His grip tightens around David’s waist as he looks up at him, lips slightly parted. “What?” It comes out half-laugh, half honest question.

Patrick doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head to press his mouth over David’s.

He thinks about how Patrick is better with words, most of the time; he tells David what he means to him often and easily. He has false starts and moments where he runs headlong away from the hard things, but once he’s started, Patrick is open and honest and good. But sometimes, words feel insufficient, like they can’t at all capture whatever nebulous thought he has in his head, and Patrick does what David does; he uses touch.

That’s what he’s doing right now—emitting staggering waves of love and bliss through their kiss. When it ends, David rocks back on his heels, tells himself it’s because of the champagne they’ve been drinking all night, the humidity in the air. Patrick leans forward and presses his forehead against his, eyes shut and lips curled into a smile that David wants to trace with his finger.

“I love you,” says David, barely audible.

Patrick opens his eyes and leans back just enough to look David in the eye when he says it back. “I love you.”

He moves them to where the rest of their guests are dancing on the lawn outside the motel, dinner plates cleared, fairy lights strung over them. There isn’t a dance floor, just a large patch of grass with no tables that’s more brown than green at this point, but Patrick pulls him into his arms anyway, resting his hands over the small of his back as the song changes to [ something slower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhaCNIpAnPs).

David remembers driving to Elmdale for breakfast the morning after staying at Stevie’s, hand encased in Patrick’s between the seats, sun in their eyes and warm on their skin. Patrick pulls him closer, rests his head on David’s shoulder and David’s never felt so full, Patrick’s arms tight around him, eyes closed, listening to the same song that they played in the car.

His rings feel heavy on his hand, a constant reminder of what they just promised each other, and David doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget this feeling.

_ When you're in my arms and I feel you so close to me_

_ All my wildest dreams come true_

_ I need no soft lights to enchant me_

_ If you'll only grant me the right_

_ To hold you ever so tight_

_ And to feel in the night the nearness of you_

It’s their first quiet moment since they walked down the aisle and they’re still surrounded by guests. Even under Patrick’s touch, under the layers of his suit, there’s something itchy under his skin. He lets his forehead rest against Patrick’s as they dance, closing his eyes and trying to just listen to the song, the feel of Patrick wrapped around him, instead of the chatter of the guests, the clinking of glasses and silverware against plates. It’s summer and he’s wearing more than one layer, he tells himself; it’s natural he’d be feeling hot and sweaty.

They stay like that until the beat changes, pushing David right out of their quiet moment and into the party, with their loud friends and louder families. It’s jarring, and not the first time he’s felt thrust out of a moment with Patrick today. He shakes it off, like he has been all day.

He tells Patrick he’s going to find Stevie—he badly needs the distraction—and they find more champagne, sidling up to the DJ. David requests _Money, Money, Money_, only to have Stevie punch his arm, hard. “Um, you have to? It’s for the groom,” he tells the DJ.

Patrick comes up beside him, slings an arm around his shoulders, and says, “The other groom forbade all Cabaret songs.”

“The other groom is also a little bit of a buzzkill, so are we _sure_ we want to listen to him?”

“Tina Turner,” someone—Roland, David discovers, when he shoots a withering glare over his shoulder—yells from across the lawn.

“_Not_ Tina Turner,” Patrick says.

“_Yes_ Tina Turner!” Stevie exclaims, and that’s when David drags her away from the DJ, plying her with second helpings of cake, though it’s more for his benefit than hers.

Sitting down to eat more cake is a welcome relief from the standing they’ve been doing, even if Alexis comes to join them, wondering aloud if she should do a sparkling rendition of Shania Twain's _Any Man of Mine_ in their honor. David has pushed his chair so it’s flush with Patrick’s, turned sideways so that he can lean against his husband with a plate of cake in his lap, occasionally interrupting Alexis listing off other Shania Twain songs, even David's least favorites—which just confirms that no part of her is serious, delighting in the way David's pointed glares. Patrick swipes bites from his slice, enough that David snaps at him to get his own plate.

“But yours is right here,” Patrick says, tilting David’s chin up so he can kiss him. It tastes like frosting and champagne and _Patrick_; he can’t bring himself to be mad anymore. He wants to sit there all night, kissing Patrick and swapping bites of cake, but Alexis is making disgruntled noises, though she looks so proudly pleased he can't seem to care, and Stevie is saying something about their choice in flavor; he knows she’s doing it to rile him up and he falls for it anyway, pushing himself out of Patrick’s arms and talking to her about balancing a business, a wedding and a mother having an identity crisis all at once.

They watch him amusedly, don’t even bother interrupting as he gestures with his fork. He’s waving his hands in the air talking about what a miracle it is that they pulled it off when he catches sight of Patrick. He has that look on his face that says _Slow down, David_, that says, _Do you need some air?_ even though they’re outside. Sure enough, Patrick stands, offering his hand to him. “I’m going to take him for some air.”

“We’re outside,” Stevie says, but she’s grinning widely as David stands, taking Patrick’s hands and throwing a glare over his shoulder.

Patrick is tugging on his hand now, pulling him away from the crowd of guests on the lawn and down the concrete path. “I am _not_ going to the honeymoon suite to have a tender moment alone, if that’s what you’re angling for,” David says, because he really isn’t, even if he does badly want to be alone right now.

But Patrick walks right past the honeymoon suite, and into David’s room, where the twin beds are pushed together and where the closets no longer hold his things, which feels odd and somehow a little bit foreign. Before he has a chance to dwell on it, Patrick is clicking the flimsy lock in the door and pushing David against it, palming him through his dress pants as he kisses him soundly.

“_Oh_,” David says, something in his brain clicking just before Patrick sinks to his knees. “Oh, we’re doing this.”

Patrick looks up at him, one eyebrow arched. “You don’t want to?” he asks.

David puts a hand on Patrick’s cheek. “I did _not_ say that.”

“Good,” Patrick says, lips curling into a smirk as he pulls at David’s belt and tosses it aside. He makes quick work of his fly, not bothering to tease David with kisses, simply pulling his pants down and pressing his open mouth to David’s inner thigh. “You look so good in your suit,” Patrick says against his skin, moving higher and higher until he decides to be a dick about it and move his mouth to his other thigh; David tilts his head back, presses it back into the door, and shuts his eyes tight. “Been waiting to do this all night.” He’s already getting hard and Patrick has barely touched him.

There had been moments, when they were dancing, when he caught sight of beads of sweat across Patrick’s brow, when he moved against him just so, that David wanted to grab him and find an empty room so they could do exactly this, but he always thought of Patrick’s nice suit, his nice, _expensive_ suit, and how they really should stay at their reception and he can’t believe Patrick was the one to break first—except that he can—and that it was while David was wildly gesturing about the stresses of wedding planning.

Patrick is sucking a mark into his thigh, one that will surely bruise, but he’s being _Patrick_ and moving too damn slowly so David fists his hair in his hand—he’s grown it out these past few months and it’s just long enough to pull on and David loves it, loves it almost as much as Patrick loves it. “Patrick…” His name comes out as a whine and if David weren’t already pink from the champagne, he’d blush from the high, needy tone of his voice.

“Yeah?” Patrick says, breath hitting the skin of David’s thigh. He pulls on Patrick’s hair again, a bit harder this time and can feel the curve of Patrick’s smirk against the skin of his thigh.

Usually, there’s a give-and-take, Patrick is drawing out the teasing even farther, David unable to hide his impatience. But tonight, Patrick takes him in his hand, strokes him until he’s fully hard—it doesn’t take much, David is already leaking as Patrick puts his mouth around his cock. He lets out a long, stuttering breath as Patrick flicks his tongue over the tip before taking him fully, tightening his grip on David’s hips as they jerk forward.

“_Fuck_,” David lets out, head hitting the door again as Patrick’s cheeks hollow. He’s not going to last long, he knows he won’t, not with Patrick taking him like this, running his tongue along the underside of his cock, not with Patrick still in his tuxedo at their wedding.

He tightens his grip in his hair again, drawing a moan from Patrick’s lips that hits him deep and makes his mouth goes slack, letting out quiet, needy sort of noises as Patrick sucks him off like only he knows how. He knows exactly how to draw it out for David, make him beg and whine and shake against him until Patrick decides to let him come, but that’s not what this is; Patrick is sucking him off quick and desperate and David doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, not when he’s been looking forward to this all day.

The whole world has narrowed down to this moment, to the way Patrick is taking him deeper, the way he’s keeping David’s hips pressed back against the door, and it feels good, so fucking good he thinks he’s going to lose it, thinks his knees might buckle if Patrick keeps going like this.

Patrick pulls off, replacing his mouth with his hand, and looks up at David, smiling widely. “David,” is all he says and David feels like he’s missing something.

The only thing he can manage to say is a breathy, “What?”

“Shhh,” Patrick says, then puts his mouth back on him and David loves it, loves seeing Patrick in his not-so-neat-anymore suit sucking him off and looking so pleased about it, loves it so much he isn’t surprised he’s been babbling audibly without even noticing.

“Been waiting all day for this,” David lets out. “Couldn’t wait to get my hands on you. You beat me to it.”

It has the desired result; one of Patrick’s hands moves from his hips and he’s palming himself as he bobs his head, so desperately turned on with David’s dick in his mouth, and David fucks into his mouth, finally able to move and feeling the coil inside him tighten. He’s saying Patrick’s name over and over, interspersed with desperate begging to let him come as Patrick almost pulls off before taking him deep, sucking hard. Something in him snaps and he comes legs shaking, stars across his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes, everything is fuzzy around the edges, like the lines of the ceiling are vibrating minutely. He blinks the blurriness away, feeling grateful for the return Patrick’s steady hands on his hips; they’re the only thing grounding him right now and he can’t tell if his shaky legs would give out or if he would just drift away without them. Patrick squeezes him once, then twice, bringing him back into reality. He can hear the music from the reception now, on the other side of the door.

“Okay?” Patrick asks and David looks down to see him sitting back on his knees, eyes a little wide with worry but somehow looking more self-satisfied than he has any right to be.

“I hate you,” he says, putting his hand on Patrick’s cheek, light and gentle. Patrick lets out a low chuckle, licks his lips _again_, and stands. David is vaguely aware of one hand leaving his hip, tucking David back into his pants, zipping them up.

“We should get back,” Patrick says and his hands return to David’s hips. He shows no sign of leaving the room.

“Should we though?” He runs a thumb across Patrick’s jaw, thinks about what would happen if they left their own reception.

“Yes,” Patrick says emphatically and kisses him; David can taste himself on Patrick’s tongue still and wonders if he could get away with getting him into his old bed. He’s starting work on his bow tie when Patrick pulls away. “David…”

David slows his hands, but reclaims Patrick’s lips briefly before pulling away and looking down pointedly. “We can’t go out like this.” Never mind the fact that Patrick’s hair is sticking up in all directions, his lips still glistening with come, he looks painfully hard in his dress pants. “Besides…” he adds with a slow smile, “I need a second before I go out there and pretend you didn’t just make me come so hard I almost blacked out. Returning the favor feels like a good stalling tactic.”

He turns them around so Patrick is pressed against the door now, and maybe he’s a little bit rough and maybe Patrick likes that, letting out a pained sort of whine and pretending he didn’t.

“How sweet,” Patrick says dryly. “You really know how to get me going, don’t you?”

“I _really_ do,” David says, sly and pleased at the way Patrick’s breath hitches as David slips his hand in his pants. He’s already won, but that doesn’t stop him from adding, “Let me take care of you.”

That’s what gets him; Patrick’s head slumps, his forehead resting on David’s shoulder as David hides a victorious grin, popping the button and pulling down Patrick’s zipper. A few quick strokes and David is sinking to his knees, closing his eyes as Patrick sinks a hand into his hair. Patrick is already close, keening against him and letting out a slew of swears mixed in with David’s name. David sneaks looks up at him, head thrown back against the wall, eyes closed. He’s loosened his tie, undone his top button, and looks so blissed out after he comes David doesn’t ever want to leave this room.

They do, eventually, stumble from the room, Patrick trying to retie his tie as David grabs for his hand, tugging him back to the reception. “David,” Patrick says through a chuckle, pulling on David’s hand so he stops. “My tie.”

David tilts his head back and groans, closing the space between them and swatting at Patrick’s hands, taking the material between his fingers and tying it deftly, tightening it at the end for good measure. Patrick tucks his lips between his teeth, holding back a smile as he loosens it so breathing comes easier, just as David brushes away imaginary dust on his shoulders.

He feels lighter walking back to the party, almost weightless like he would float away if not for Patrick’s hand in his.

Nobody says anything about their absence, which David feels profoundly grateful for as Marcy calls them over, eyes bright. She wants to dance with him, and behind Patrick’s teasing comments about it is a smile, relieved and content all at once. He stays back with his dad as Marcy pulls David to the dance floor.

“I’m not entirely sure Patrick would allow two mother-son dances,” she says after they settle into the vague sort of swaying everyone around them is doing. “So I’ll have to settle with you.”

How David was ever confused as to where Patrick got his sharp wit from is a mystery; after six months of knowing Patrick’s parents, two visits there and two visits here, Patrick has revealed himself to be his mother’s son.

“I’d say I was offended but I prefer him too,” David says, spinning them around so he can face Patrick, whose arms are crossed as he stands next to his dad, murmuring something surely cutting out of the corner of his mouth. Marcy throws her head back and laughs; David raises one victorious eyebrow in Patrick’s direction.

(Later, Patrick will whisper in his ear, “I think my mom likes you better than me.”)

“But really,” Marcy says, laughter fading. David snaps his gaze from Patrick’s back to her; he can recognize a change in tone. “We’re very glad to have you in the family, David. Not that you weren’t already a part of the family, but…” She trails off. Something thick and heavy settles in David’s throat. “It needs saying nonetheless.”

He swallows down whatever rock has lodged itself in his throat and presses his stinging eyes closed, just briefly. “Thank you, Marcy.” He’s not sure what else to say; anything more would feel disingenuous but anything else feels woefully insufficient. “I’m um. Very grateful to have found your son?”

It comes out more like a question than he wants, especially considering how much he means it, but Marcy seems to get it. She pulls him into a hug. “One more dance and I’ll get back to him.”

“How would you feel about two? He’s been very badly trying to pretend he doesn’t want to cry right now and I want to see if we can make it happen.”

When the song finishes, they make their way back to Patrick and Clint, whose jaws are both clenched as they pretend to talk about baseball. “You _can_ cry, you know,” David says into Patrick’s ear, winding an arm around his waist.

Patrick chuckles lowly, waving to his parents as they go off to find family. “Shockingly, I _do_ know that.”

“Okay, but you're doing that _I’m going to clench my jaw and talk to my dad about baseball while my husband and mom share a truly sweet moment at our wedding _thing.”

“How do you know we weren’t crying about baseball?”

“Fair point.” David wouldn’t be surprised. “I like your mom.”

“I like her too.”

“Shut up.” David swats at him, pretending he isn’t smiling at the frankly overly self-satisfied lilt of Patrick’s voice.

There’s a pause before Patrick tilts his head to the side and says, “She likes you too, you know.”

“Unsurprising. Everybody likes me.”

Patrick presses his lips together, looking at David a little like he’s saying_ Don’t make me say it aloud_, which is just _asking_ for another swat. It melts away quickly though, and David braces himself for whatever stupidly earnest thing is about to come from his husband’s mouth.

“Really. She does. I know she’s probably told you so and I know hearing it from me won’t make you believe it more, but it’s true. I think they’re both…” Patrick’s voice does something it rarely does and usually only during hushed conversations between the sheets; it breaks, then he swallows and steadies. “Just really happy I married you.”

The stinging is back in David’s eyes, which is getting annoyingly inconvenient. He closes his eyes tight enough to see stars and gives his head a small shake before blinking quickly and refocusing on Patrick. All day it’s been like every emotion he has is being broadcasted to everyone around them; it’s leaving him feeling raw and a little bit vulnerable, but it’s his wedding day so he swallows the old, habitual impulse that wants him to fold in on himself and breathes. “Well,” he says slowly, “That makes three of us.”

“Four,” Patrick corrects before he kisses him. It’s better, when it’s just him and Patrick without sickly sweet heartfelt congratulations like this is the biggest thing they’ll ever do—which David doesn’t think it is, the store is something big they do together, and the marriage that comes later is the big thing too, not just the wedding. In fact, he thinks he’s nearly ready to be done with the wedding part.

…

Patrick finds him by the cake again an hour later. “Hey.” He comes to stand beside him, shoulders just barely touching. He’s following David’s gaze at the half-finished cake, hands in his pockets.

They haven’t seen each other for an hour, Patrick being trapped in the nicest possible way with his grandma and David making sure his mother didn’t take the mic from the DJ for her second serenade of the night. The first was _You Can’t Hurry Love_; he might have cried during it but that doesn’t mean he wants it to happen again. There are only so many bumblingly earnest speeches he can handle from his father while trying to coral his mother in one day. He leans his head against Patrick’s shoulder, wanting to let his eyes fall shut as Patrick ghosts a hand up his back.

“I don’t want more cake.” He can see Patrick glance at him, twist his head just so to catch a glimpse of his expression before turning back to the cake, or what’s left of it.

“Okay,” says Patrick and then stays quiet.

“I just—” He breaks off, letting out a sigh. He finally turns toward Patrick, who’s just standing there patiently, his suit jacket long ago discarded, tie loosened. It should annoy him, he thinks, to see Patrick so undone at their own wedding reception. It doesn’t. “Everyone’s already had second helpings. No one would come up to me if I was standing here.”

He can see the gears turning in Patrick’s head. He nods once and puts his hand out, waiting, always waiting for David to take it. He does. “Come on,” Patrick says, pointing his head in the direction of the motel before pulling David that way.

He follows easily, tugged along by Patrick’s hand, strong and sure in his. They break through the crowd of guests, round the corner to the front of the motel. The music is still loud, the sound of conversation still audible from here, but it’s quieter and no one else has thought to break away. Patrick pulls him along farther until they’re by the lobby and he comes to a stop, leaning against the wall of the motel and sliding to the ground, knees bent.

“No way.” David is wearing a custom suit—so is Patrick and if he had more energy he’d pull him to his feet and brush off the gravel and dirt.

Patrick cracks a smile and raises his hand to pull David toward him. “Come on. Sit with me.” He pats the concrete beside him.

“I _know_ I literally just married you but I’m not sitting down in this suit. You can sit. I’ll stand.” He crosses his arms, feeling far too petulant. They’re away from the party now but his mind is still whirring. He’s having trouble focusing on one spot, eyes darting around. He can feel his foot tapping a quick rhythm against the sidewalk.

When he looks back at Patrick, he’s pulling himself to his feet and for one horrible second, David thinks he’s going to walk back to the party and stay there; instead, he jogs over to one of the tables on the edge of the lawn and taking one of the cushions off of the folding chairs. He walks back quickly, tossing the pillow on the ground and sitting back down, patting his hand on the cushion.

David sucks his lips between his teeth, wavering. He’s not sure sitting would help with all this surplus frenetic energy. He puts his hands over his face, scrubbing at it and not caring that his skin probably looks red and blotchy now.

“David.” Patrick’s voice pulls his hands away from his face. “Come on, let’s sit.”

David finally complies, lowering himself to the ground beside Patrick, flattening his hands on the pavement. It’s grounding him, like the press of Patrick’s shoulder to his. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin against them, worrying his lower lip.

They sit in silence, shoulders pressed together, staring ahead until Patrick speaks, tilting his head back so he looks up at the sky. “So this is a lot,” he says.

David lets out something akin to a laugh, though it comes out more like a sigh. Patrick’s hand comes to rest beside David’s, lacing their fingers together. He can feel the cool metal of Patrick’s ring against his skin and he squeezes his eyes shut, following Patrick’s gaze up before letting his head fall to rest on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t ask David any questions; just presses a kiss into David’s hair and sits beside him, tracing his thumb across the back of David’s hand in lazy circles.

David inhales, slow through his nose. “It just got very…” He waves his free hand in the air, gesturing at nothing in particular. “It was a lot,” he settles on, opting to repeat Patrick.

“I know,” Patrick says just above a whisper. He raises their tangled hands to kiss David’s knuckles.

“It’s like. Why did we do this?” His gaze slips in the direction of the party as Patrick lets out a short laugh. “I mean. I _wanted_ the wedding,” he clarifies, because he _ did_.

He wanted it for himself but especially for Patrick—Patrick, who planned a wedding before and hated it, Patrick, who made budget spreadsheets and let his niece dance on his feet less than an hour ago. He thinks about how it could have been bigger, how they could have added extended family and older friends to the guest list, spent too much money on an event space in Elmdale, how they could have said their vows anywhere but Town Hall, had their reception anywhere but the lawn by the Motel with just their closest friends and family members.

They could have done the wedding he and Alexis read about in magazines—on a strict budget with amendments, but they could have done it. They would have made it happen—crunched the numbers, sent more save-the-dates, paid more for catering, rented more chairs and tables. They would have done it if they wanted it; if they wanted anything more than a small ceremony and a small reception, they would have done it. They rented the DJ, got a deal on dinner and wine from Lucy, one of their suppliers, set up twinkly lights over tables and chairs, and they decorated Town Hall as best they could.

And still, it feels like a lot.

It feels a little like there’s been a constant buzzing all day, thrumming under his skin. It clung to him when everyone hugged them after, when his dad clapped Patrick on the back, when Marcy kissed his cheek. There’s all this leftover energy shimmering under the surface, waiting to be released. He had thought that it would dissipate during the vows, maybe when he put the ring on Patrick’s finger; it didn’t. His dad has given him no less than three pieces of advice about marriage that David can't understand underneath the metaphors, his mother cried through the whole ceremony, and Alexis won't stop hugging either of them. They’ve barely had a moment alone all day, just before the ceremony and their hurried, sloppy fooling around in David’s old room; it isn’t until just now that he’s realizing his head is spinning from it, all this excited flood of love from their guests and underneath it all, the ache in his heart when he thinks about how much he loves Patrick.

It always hits him later. He thinks he’s okay, thinks he can handle all the people, all the _happy _people. He couldn’t tell if Patrick felt it too, so adept at hiding what’s happening beneath the surface, not until just now, with Patrick’s breathless laughs and quiet looks.

“I know you did,” Patrick says, breaking his train of thought. “I did too.”

“I’m glad we did it,” David says and means it. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean to Patrick anymore. He promised that to him last night in his car and again this morning.

“Me too.” Patrick’s thumb is still tracing shapes across his hand.

“But let’s not do it again?” It comes out breathless, almost a laugh but not quite.

Patrick grins at him, shoulders shaking. He moves so his back isn’t against the wall but so he’s facing David now, brings a hand up to run a finger down his jaw. “Let’s not,” he says, and then he kisses him, slow and like he’s wanted to all day; quiet and just for them.

They sit for as long as it takes for David to feel his body return to normal, heart rate slowed and hands less shaky. The wall of the motel on his back feels good and stable, the press of Patrick’s hand in his even better, keeping him anchored. That’s what he focuses on—the way it feels to have his feet connected to the ground, to have a hand in his.

He turns to Patrick and the corner of his mouth lilts up. “Ready?”

Patrick's lips curl into an identical smile. “Yeah,” he replies with a nod. “If you are.”

David nods, brushing his hands against the cushion beneath him. “I am.”

Patrick helps him stand, pulling him up and tugging him close for one last kiss. “We could just leave. If that’s what you want,” he says when he leans away.

“No, I think I want to stay,” David says because he does, he wants to dance and eat more cake and drink more champagne. He wants to be with his family just a little bit longer, which is an oddly familiar thought—newly familiar, but familiar nonetheless.

“Let’s go then.”

He trails behind Patrick, hand in hand, grinning widely when Alexis and Stevie come into view, dancing with Ted and letting out yells when they see them.

“You good?” Stevie asks over the music, looking smug.

“Yeah,” David says with a nod. “I’m good.”

. . .

David practically trips into the town car sometime around midnight—the town car everyone pitched in for so they could make it to the bed and breakfast not far away that night, he remembers with a swell of warmth in his chest. Patrick follows, pulling his already loosened tie completely off, leaning back into the soft leather of the backseat, eyes closed.

David glances over his shoulder and catches sight of the rest of their guests milling around in the parking lot; Bob is trailing behind Gwen and her plus one, Roland has one of the ribbons from the centerpieces tied around his head and Jocelyn is swaying a bit, hand clasped in his. Just their families are watching them go, Alexis tucked into Ted’s side, one hand coming to wipe at something under her eye, so quick David nearly misses. His dad is pulling Stevie closer, throwing an arm around her and smiling widely at his mom, who he can tell is crying even from this distance. Just as they pull onto the road, he sees Clint put a hand on his mom’s shoulder, sees Marcy raise a hand to wave to them, her other one covering her mouth.

Patrick is sliding across the seat the second they’re out of sight, pressing a kiss to David’s temple, and whispering in his ear, low and tender, “Wanna make out in this town car?”

David’s head swivels to the side, wasting no time in taking Patrick’s face in his hands and kissing him soundly. “Absolutely,” he breathes, grinning widely.

“David, I was kidding,” Patrick says but it’s not a joke anymore, not the way Patrick’s gaze is slipping to his lips, the way his fingers are tight on David’s hips. He reaches to the divider and pushes a button before turning back to David. Just as he slants his mouth over David’s, the partition between them and the driver slides up and Patrick is pushing David back into the window, searing and full of unmistakable intent.

They make out like teenagers in the car the whole way there, leaving marks under half-unbuttoned shirts, rumpling their suits and mussing their hair so that when they stumble from the car, even Patrick can’t pretend they weren’t just doing what they were doing. It’s too late for anyone but the night shift clerk to be at the bed and breakfast they booked for the week, so David carries their bags into the tiny lobby as Patrick checks them in. He puts the suitcases by the stairs and walks over to Patrick, still feeling giddy and light-headed from the champagne and the rings on his fingers.

He can feel Patrick jump at his touch as he drapes himself around him, chin resting on his shoulder. “Hey,” Patrick says through a grin, turning his head to kiss him briefly.

David buries his face in his neck, mumbles a, “Hello,” into his skin before pressing his mouth to the spot just below his ear that makes Patrick shiver. Patrick’s hand stills over his wallet, hesitating just a second as he pulls out his credit card and hands it over. The clerk looks nonplussed, as if newly married couples regularly stumble into the B&B at all hours, looking thoroughly disheveled and still unsteady on their feet, which, David realizes, is probably not as unusual as he thinks.

David lets out a groan into Patrick’s neck, feels Patrick’s laugh against him. “Hurry _up_,” he whines quietly. Patrick pats his head encouragingly but doesn’t say anything, so David tries a different route, drops his voice an octave and lowers it. “Want to get you upstairs, strip you down, open you up, wait for you to beg—”

“You two are in room four, it’ll just be up those stairs and to the left,” the front desk clerk says, making Patrick jump. He blinks four times, quickly, before refocusing and listening as she tells them what time breakfast is, what amenities they have, when their spa appointment is the next day—David hadn’t known about that, hadn’t know Patrick had scheduled things for them and he lets out a moan into Patrick’s neck. Patrick responds by jabbing his elbow backward, not hard enough for it to hurt, but light enough that he gets the idea.

And then the clerk says, “Welcome to the Oak Hill Bed and Breakfast, Mr. and Mr. Brewer,” and David feels his insides go to liquid, warm and syrupy at the sound of that. He hadn’t taken Patrick’s name, neither of them had, but the clerk didn’t know that, just called them Mr. and Mr. Brewer on instinct, because they’re a married couple now. That, more than anything, makes it feel all the more real.

“Thank you.” The words sound thick in Patrick’s throat and he leans back, tilting his head back just slightly against David’s shoulder. He’s soft and warm against him, heart beating steady against David’s hand. He takes the key from the clerk, twists in David’s arms and presses his mouth against his; David doesn’t think he’s been kissed in public as much as he has today. They’re still in the lobby, still have to make it upstairs to their room, so Patrick just slings his bag over his shoulder, grabs David’s bag, and tangles his fingers with David’s as they walk up the stairs.

Their bags hit the ground the second the door opens, shoved off to the side as David kicks the door shut behind him just as Patrick crowds into his space, pressing him to the door and kissing him like he’s wanted to kiss him all night—slow, open, unhurried. There aren’t any guests to talk to, families to deal with, pictures to worry about; so Patrick sucks a mark into his neck, grabs his lapels, drags him towards the bed and crawls atop him.

David had felt tired, before they left, sitting down as the party wound down, wrapped up in Patrick. He had wanted to fall asleep like that, leaning against his husband, letting his eyes fall shut. But now, he feels awake, sparking under Patrick’s touch as he slips his hands under David’s dress shirt.

Patrick undresses him like it’s the first time, like he wants to memorize the lines of David’s body, file away every time David jumps at his touch, lets out a needy sound as he drags his lips down his chest, tweaking his nipple as he moves. Patrick kisses him all over, murmuring everything he loves about David against his skin, peels his clothes off slowly like he’s savoring every inch he’s revealing.

He moves like that until David is keening against him, hips bucking upward, whining about Patrick’s own clothes. His lips curl into a smirk and David kisses him so he doesn’t have to look at it, fumbling with his buttons and pushing his shirt over his shoulders.

“Impatient, huh?” Patrick says when David pulls away, focused on unbuckling Patrick’s pants.

“Shut. Up.” It’s said through gritted teeth and Patrick huffs out a laugh that’s quickly cut off when David gets his hand on him, and now Patrick is letting out soft sighs against him, pupils blown as he looks at David. He leans down to kiss him and lingers before pulling away, stumbling across the room for the bags they’ve left by the door. He returns with the lube, throwing it at David, who catches it and grins, wide and unabashed.

Patrick fucks him slow that night, kissing the tears that leak from David’s eyes when he comes, letting out a cry into Patrick’s shoulder. After, Patrick doesn’t pull out immediately, just rests his forehead against David’s as they fall back to earth. When he finally moves, padding across the room to get a warm washcloth, David lets his head fall back onto the pillow, his eyes drifting shut as his breath evens out.

He can feel Patrick’s hands on him, cleaning them up before tossing the washcloth in the basket for towels in the bathroom. He collapses on the bed beside David, face-down with a sigh. David cracks an eye open, turning on his side so he can trail a hand up Patrick’s spine, raising goosebumps. Patrick’s head turns to face him, half-burrowed in the pillow.

“David,” he says, voice muffled.

“Mmh?”

“Are you going to let me go to sleep?”

David swallows a laugh, running a finger down his back again. He’s tired too, wants nothing more than to fall asleep at the end of this long day. He barely has the energy to goad Patrick. “Probably.”

“Probably?” Patrick repeats but it comes out more like _ prbbly?_

“Haven’t decided yet,” says David, even if he has, already sinking deeper into his pillow, eyes blinking slowly.

“Yeah, okay.” Patrick breathes out a laugh, rolling onto his side. “So much for making me beg.”

David swats at him and misses and Patrick throws his head back laughing, bright and sunny; David feels himself dissolve at the sound, something joyous seeping through him. “Next time,” David says softly, catching Patrick’s hands and pulling him close. “Next time, I’ll make you beg.”

“Do you promise?” Patrick asks, just a whisper against his lips. David nods and Patrick closes the space between them, pressing him back into the mattress before pulling the sheets over them and tucking David into his side.

David can feel the cool metal of Patrick’s wedding band as he brushes his hand up and down his arm, feather-light, like David is something precious. That’s how he falls asleep, listening to Patrick’s heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at [brewerspatrick](https://www.brewerspatrick.tumblr.com)


End file.
